Hermanita
by eirayne
Summary: "It's just high school, chica." / In which Hazel just wants a normal life, and Leo's there to make sure she gets one. Just a short one-shot with some Hazel&Leo friendship, hurt/comfort, and protective-big-brother Leo (because Hazel is so Leo's unofficial little sister). Set sometime after BoO.


**[a/n] i know it's been months since i last posted (or updated) a story, but i've been struggling with my writing lately. i have so many ideas and yet i never know how to write them. this story was an idea for a one-shot i had come up with a while ago and i finally managed to complete it.**

 **so sorry for the wait on my stories- hopefully once school lets out by June i'll have a ton more free time! hope you enjoy this b/c i definitely enjoyed writing it!**

* * *

 **Hermanita**

 **a.n.** "It's just high school, _chica._ " / In which Hazel just wants a normal life, and Leo's there to make sure she gets one. Just a short little one-shot with some Hazel&Leo friendship, hurt/comfort, and protective-big-brother Leo (because Hazel is so Leo's unofficial little sister).

Sorry not-sorry to all Lazel shippers out there (I'm a Frazel fan ;)).

* * *

It's her first day of high school, and Hazel's nervous.

The large brick building stands before her, and she feels small in its shadow. Dozens of students crowd around the courtyard at the school's entrance: seniors dressed casually and juniors chatting loudly and sophomores yelling as obnoxiously as the butterflies in her stomach are moving.

Only her fellow freshman look as apprehensive as she feels, and the annoying thought of _I'm alone_ starts to fade to the background. Still, it's not an easy transition from one century to another, from one world to another (way more normal) one, and Hazel's never felt more alone.

Except there's a familiar face walking beside her, and even though said familiar face is in another grade, the nagging sensation of being _small and alone_ fades even more.

 _'_ _I'm not completely alone,'_ she amends to herself. _'I've still got Leo.'_

She readjusts the strap of her backpack self-consciously for the seventh time, and even though she thinks she's being subtle, Leo catches her. He grins at her impishly.

 _"_ _Relax,_ Levesque," he consoles, and the familiarity of his grin calms her a bit. She loosens the hold she has on the bag's strap, but her fingers still drum in anxiousness against the fabric. He rolls his eyes and tries again. "You've got nothing to worry about."

 _'_ _I seriously doubt that,'_ the devil on her shoulder says, and she can't help but agree.

The hesitant smile that forms on her face seems to appease Leo, though, so maybe she'll keep it there just so he feels he's succeeded in calming her nerves.

 _…_ _aaand_ he sees right through her.

"C'mon," Leo groans, throwing his hands up in the same dramatic fashion that always throws Hazel back to the past again (because if she didn't know any better he was _so_ Sammy Valdez). "Hazel, you've bested monsters and giants and the Earth herself (though I'd consider all of the above _as_ monsters—but _details_ ). This prison—sorry, _school_ —has nothing on our resident jewel-summoning, Mist-controlling, kicka—uh, _butt—_ daughter of Pluto. Trust me."

And _of course_ she trusts him. It's the unfamiliar she _doesn't_ trust—the new, the unknown, the feeling that she's walking into something completely unaware and unprepared.

The bag on her back suddenly seems to gain a hundred pounds (so maybe she overdid it on the 'preparation' aspect; scratch 'unprepared' off the list), and she adjusts the strap for an eighth time.

"I don't know, Leo," she says, exhaling as she watches the stream of students entering the school before her with the knowledge that she's about to join them. That annoying lump of apprehension in her throat grows and the butterflies in her stomach seem to multiply. "I don't know if I can do this."

Leo simply claps a hand on her shoulder, says, "It's just high school, _chica,"_ and the wide, assuring grin on his face chases most of the butterflies away.

With a shaky breath, she attempts to return the smile because _he's right._ She's handled worse. She's survived worse. _It's just high school._

Hazel's still nervous, but she knows Leo's going to be there to reassure her.

* * *

Only three classes have passed, and Hazel's frustrated.

The bell blares loudly through the echoey hallways, the sharp ringing only intensifying the headache geometry had given her the class period before (she doesn't recall math every being as confusing).

Her equally loud schoolmates don't help matters.

She mistakenly focuses on the slip of paper in her hand for a second too long, _oh-so-gracefully_ stumbling over her feet as she attempts to weave through the crowded halls and find her locker at the same time.

 _'_ _Locker #238,'_ she muses, the number on repeat in her mind so she won't forget it. The wall of rustic green metal doors starts to blend together. _'Why must there be so many lockers?'_

The locker ordeal is just one hurdle of many in a track-and-field event that Hazel has had to metaphorically participate in—and she's definitely feeling it. Only three classes in, and she's completely worn out mentally (then again, force someone to deal with three classes filled with immature freshman, strict teachers who assign actual _work_ on the first day, and dyslexia-induced headaches, and _anyone_ would be worn out—or so Hazel prefers to believe).

Even without the whole 'first day of high school' madness, Hazel still feels as though she is sorely out of place, which—she supposes—is to be expected when she was born literal _decades_ ago. It's as though—in every classroom and hallway—she is struck with reminders of _'Hey, you're not from this century!'_

One such reminder is the heavy metal contraption preventing her from opening her locker.

There's another number scrawled beneath the red _#238_ on the slip of paper in her hand—a series of them separated with three little lines—and she assumes they somehow correspond with the numbers etched in the metal casing of the gadget.

She figures the numbers would be more helpful if she actually knows how to use them.

There's a dial in the middle of the device, and her fingers grip the grooves, twisting it. She can hear the quick _click-click-click_ as she turns the dial, but the locker remains maddeningly _locked_.

Then there's a presence beside her that's closer than the flow of high-schoolers behind her, and a voice pipes up, "Need a hand?"

She glances at Leo out of the corner of her eye, exhaling in irritation. "Or a key. What kind of lock is this—numbers?!"

She catches him bite his lip to stifle a smile, but she ignores it. She knows he would never offend her intentionally, and she honestly needs his expertise with machinery to get the ridiculous— _key-less—_ lock open.

"It's a combination lock," Leo explains patiently, words coming out calmly and with a certainty that's always there when he's discussing anything involving machines. "The numbers on that paper _are_ essentially a key. You have to twist the dial in the order of the number sequence, but you have to rotate it right _first,"_ his fingers follow his words, "then left—."

He pauses, seeing that his explanation is less than understood. Instead of continuing, he merely smiles and says, "It's a learned talent." He twists the dial a final time, and one side of the metal loop pops out of the circular device.

"I don't understand any of this," Hazel sighs in defeat. "The lock, my classes, all this technology—it's all so confusing."

"It'll get better, _mi amiga,"_ he assures. "It takes a few tries to get the hang of it. I _promise_ , you won't be the only freshman struggling with it." He reaches up and removes the lock from the loop of metal that held it in place. "Ta-da!"

The locker pops open in time with Leo's overly dramatic jazz hands, and although she feels a little foolish, Hazel can't help but smile at his amusing antics.

Hazel's still frustrated, but she knows Leo's going to be there to help her.

* * *

They're mocking everything about her, and Hazel's hurt.

They walk beside her, in front of her, tripping her up _accidentally,_ questioning her about _'How come you didn't know how to turn on a computer?'_ and— _gods,_ she just wants to eat her lunch.

It's not her fault she's unaccustomed to modern-day technology—it's _not._ Yet they tease her, mock her like it is. Then the teasing shifts to her clothes, to her overly-stuffed backpack, to her 'ancient' sayings because _'Geez, girl, what're you—from the 40s?!'_

Yes, she is. And on any other day—in any other situation—she might have proudly stated that fact. But in _this_ day, age, situation, she _can't_ because they won't understand.

And they mock _her_ for not understanding. She can almost smile at the irony.

She has to stop at her locker, which means she has to struggle with the stupid _combination lock,_ which means the three overconfident sophomores gathering behind her are witnessing the _poor_ _freshman girl_ struggle—seriously _why_ were sophomores placed in her class?

After one of them comments a _very_ helpful _'You turn it left first'—_ followed by a cruel chuckle of laughter—she swallows her anger and steels her gaze and mutters, "Please leave me alone."

They don't, but she doesn't really expect them to. Politeness gets you nowhere in high school, Hazel's discovering.

Another chuckle of laugher—tripled, this time—and Hazel's fist clenches over the strap of her lunchbox as she pulls it out of her locker, half wishing it was a weapon and half wishing the sophomores behind her were mythological creatures.

Cruelty is so much easier to deal with when it disintegrates into yellow sand and she's celebrated as a hero for destroying it.

"A pony?" Cruelty mocks, and another bout of laughter surrounds her. "What are you— _five?"_

She's about to retort, to defend her choices and her speech and her lack of modern-day knowledge because _'It was the closest design to Arion,'_ when a voice cuts in.

"CUT!" Leo shouts as he approaches the four of them, shaking his head in disappointment. "Hazel here is the fair princess of the land—you _gentlemen_ are not supposed to _mock_ the princess, you're supposed to be _wooing_ her! Terrible actors!"

One of the sophomores scowls—cruelty donning a mask of annoyance in true theatre fashion—and says, "This is none of your business, Valdez. Scram."

Leo isn't fazed. "Of course it's my business," he exclaims, gasping dramatically. "As director, poor actors are a poor decision on my part—I'll have to fire you if I'm going to make any money off of this." His smile then fades and his eyes grow serious. "I'm not going anywhere. Not without _mi hermanita."_

Maybe it's the look in his eyes, or the uncharacteristic expression, or the unfamiliar Spanish words, but the sophomores reluctantly back off with a glare in Leo's direction and an upturned nose at Hazel's.

Their attitude still rubs Hazel the wrong way, and their words still sting at the back of her mind, but she smiles at Leo and can't help but throw her arms around the older boy in thanks.

Hazel's still hurt, but she knows Leo's going to be there.

 _"_ _You're stuck with me, hermanita."_

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 **[a/n] hope you enjoyed that! i love these characters but i'm not always the best at writing them and i wanted to challenge myself a bit with that.** **also - i love the idea of Leo acting as an older brother to Hazel and that sort of inspired this fic.**

 **this was really fun for me to write (and i hope you guys noticed the Spanish in there - i'm part Hispanic so i wanted to have fun with Leo's non-godly heritage a bit; all the translations are below if needed).**

 **chica - girl**

 **mi amiga - my friend (girl)**

 **mi hermanita - my little sister**

 **thanks for reading! all reviews, favs, and follows are appreciated and loved!**

 **-eira-**


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